


when we fight (we fight like lions)

by PurrpleCat



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Kíli/Tauriel, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Oblivious Bilbo, Possessive Thorin, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Quest of Erebor, Romance, Slow Burn, Thorin Is an Idiot, Thorin Stonehelm is a darling, Unrequited Love, Wooing, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-12 07:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17463569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurrpleCat/pseuds/PurrpleCat
Summary: Thorin and Bilbo make peace after the Battle, and with Winter right around the corner the hobbit remains in Erebor at the King's invitation. With the reparations of the dwarven kingdom continuing apace, the memories of war and Thorin's gold-sickness continue to plague the hobbit's memories - Bilbo longs to return to the Shire, convinced that despite the words of forgiveness spoken in Thorin's healing tent the friendship between the Dwarf King and the Burglar is beyond repair. But Winter is snapping at their heels with its icy teeth and Bilbo must remain in the Lonely Mountain until the roads are safe to travel once more.Will the long winter months truly be as miserable and lonely as the hobbit fears? Or could the longing in his heart for the Dwarf King be healed with the help of a charismatic Iron Hills captain?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.  
> Well.
> 
> It seems that I am back after a very, very long hiatus, and more than that - I am writing again!
> 
> I hope you'll all like this one. I certainly do.

CHAPTER 1

 

BILBO BAGGINS stood in the little alcove on the side of the western battlements and thought of death. 

Not so long ago the vast, empty plains spreading before his eyes had rung with the bellows and screams of the battle, the crash of steel on steel echoing across the once deathly quiet Desolation of Smaug until it seemed as if the there was nothing to the world beyond the gruesome sounds of war. And although the barren wastelands lying at the foot of the Lonely Mountain were quiet once more, Bilbo could still see in his mind's eye the rolling waves of clashing bodies, could still smell the stench of Orc and blood and death. 

He shuddered when a gust of strong, cold wind tugged at his hair, sneaking its icy fingers beneath his collar.  

Pulling his coat tighter against his body in a vain attempt to fend off the chill, Bilbo sighed heavily, running his hand along the rough stone surface of the parapet - the only thing separating him from the hundred feet deep chasm adorned with sharp rocks at its bottom sticking out like teeth of some monstrous creature, waiting for him to fall in with its maw wide open.  

He thought of death often these days. A little too often perhaps than was entirely healthy for a nature loving hobbit such as Bilbo - no hobbit had any business thinking such dark, awful thoughts after all. And although Bilbo thought of death more and more since the eve of the battle, it was not from the lack of trying to forget: there were many tasks to distract him in the reclaimed Mountain, leaving the hobbit with very little time to himself, and Bilbo was determined to see them done before winter forced its icy claws into the earth. 

And yet. 

And yet. 

It proved difficult to forget what had happened that fateful day when the fight seemed hopeless, when the enemy had crashed against the slopes of the Mountain like black waves, and the great horns of Erebor rang across the battlefield. All – Elf, Orc, Dwarf and Man– had looked to the gates of the once mighty kingdom. Bilbo had been among them when it happened, when the gates burst open and a company of dwarven warriors rushed onto the battlefield with awesome cries, appearing from the dust and debris of the destroyed gates like champions and heroes of old springing forth from the very bowels of the Lonely Mountain. At the head of the company Thorin - dressed in glistening armor with Orcrist raised high above his head - had bellowed for his kin, and the Iron Hills dwarves rallied to the King’s side, their cheers overwhelming the awful screeching of orcs and goblins. Bilbo had yelled with them at the sight, eyes stinging with tears as he looked at the Company of Thorin Oakenshield he had learnt to love as kin. The King’s appearance swayed the fight in their favor, rekindling the fire in the warriors’ hearts. 

Yet death still came to hundreds.  

Their bodies had lain on the battlefield, cold and unmoving, their blood sinking deep into the earth below. Brown-red mud had clung to the hobbit’s feet as he rushed through the battle, invisible to all thanks to his precious ring but navigating carefully between foes and allies, focused solely on finding Thorin in the ocean of bodies; forcing himself not to look down at the pale, still faces of the dead peering up at him with sightless eyes.  

He could still remember their eyes. 

Ah, but to forget only for a moment, to once again enjoy peace and serenity that was his beloved Shire! 

Bilbo sighed heavily, shuddering as the icy wind picked up. His nose had to be bright red after standing in the cold for so long, he was sure, but Bilbo was not inclined to return to the mountain just yet. The barren wasteland below hardly provided an entertaining view, true, but if Bilbo closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that the gruff voices speaking quietly nearby were the voices of his neighbors, not the dwarven sentries overlooking the battlements, and that he was in his home in Bag End, sitting on a garden bench and smoking Old Toby contentedly with not a care in the world.  

But he was not in Bag End and the voice he was hearing was not that of Hamfast muttering under his breath while sweeping fallen leaves from the path leading to his own smial.  

The fur collar lining his coat tickled Bilbo’s nose, making it twitch. The coat had been a gift from the Company, the dwarves concerned for their resident hobbit’s health once the frost started to set in. The East was much chillier than the mild climate of the Shire, where winters were gentle and summers comfortably warm, and the cold and weariness seemed to seep down into Bilbo’s very bones. The coat was a kindness, lined with wolf fur, thick and sturdy in comparison to the hobbit’s old clothes that had seen better days since the beginning of their journey, and the dwarves made sure that Bilbo wore it whenever he stepped outside the Mountain for some fresh air. Not that they liked the idea of their Burglar wandering the slopes alone, unprotected – it was Thorin that insisted on Bilbo taking one of their Company or a guard with him each time he wished to hike outside, and although the hobbit very clearly stated his dislike to the idea of anyone minding him like a helpless babe, he could not possibly refuse Thorin anything.  

Not after all that had happened between them.  

Bilbo leaned a little against the parapet, gazing into the abyss below him. It was not this particular place where Thorin had dangled him by the throat over the Mountain’s walls, but a shudder still made its way along the hobbit’s spine as he remembered the fury in those sky-blue eyes, the look of utter betrayal and pain on the King’s angular face, the grip of his thick fingers around Bilbo’s unprotected throat, the feeling of bloodcurdling fear as his feet left the ground- 

 _You have no claim over me,_ _you_ _miserable rat_ _, you undersized burglar!_  

The words echoed in his ears and he flinched, scrubbing a hand over his face as though to get rid of the awful sound of Thorin’s voice twisted with loathing from his memory.  

They had made peace after the battle, when Thorin lay half-dead on a thin cot in a hastily assembled tent, his body littered with many wounds and bruises; but even though his eyes were clear from the gold madness then, his face pale with pain but no longer set in a hateful grimace as he looked at Bilbo, the hobbit could not possibly believe that all was forgotten and forgiven.  

He could not forget. He could not forgive _himself_.  

He had betrayed Thorin, _stolen_ from him, and although the King had welcomed him back in the Mountain there was a distance between them now that had not been present since the day at the Carrock when Thorin’s arms wrapped around him, when his scent and warmth enveloped Bilbo like a blanket, promising safety and friendship - 

Bilbo missed him. A fierce longing had settled into his heart, aching every time he caught a glimpse of the King. They did not speak any more, not as they used to – Thorin was kind but distant, formal as though Bilbo was nothing more than a tolerated guest: his inquiries about the hobbit’s wellbeing were always stiff, his body straight and hard as though he was _forcing_ himself to remain in Bilbo’s company for longer than a few moments at a time.  

Whether the King’s order that Bilbo should not wander outside of the mountain alone was born out of real concern for his safety or as a way to keep an eye on him at all times, Bilbo did not know. He suspected Balin’s influence, however – the King would most likely not give a fig if Bilbo fell into a ditch somewhere and died. He wouldn’t even notice the hobbit gone... 

 _You?_ You _would steal from me?_  

“Stop it,” Bilbo whispered to himself heatedly, rubbing his eyes to get rid of the wetness that began to blur his vision.  

He would not cry. Not when this was all _his_ damned fault... 

A movement caught his eye, far away on the road leading to the western gates, and Bilbo squinted. He watched for a moment, unmoving, until his keen eyes caught a sight of the Iron Hills banner fluttering in the wind. 

It appeared to be a company of around a hundred dwarves led by a single captain at the front, all riding astride great battle rams at full speed towards Erebor. As the party approached Bilbo could see that quite a number of steeds was rider-less and that many of the other rams carried two warriors on their backs. 

“Open the gates!” Bilbo yelled suddenly, throwing himself away from his peaceful spot and running along the battlements as fast as his legs could carry him. The sentries stared at him as though he had grown another head but Bilbo only waved at the approaching party impatiently and scowled at the dwarf nearest to him. “Open the gates, now!” 

The soldier stepped to the edge of the battlements, leaning out and squinting at the banner fluttering in the distance, before bellowing louder than Bilbo had any hope of ever managing: “OPEN THE GATES!” 

The great chains moved with a mighty groan instantaneously but Bilbo paid them no mind – he ran down the steep stairs two at the time, shouting at the top of his voice to fetch the healers. He reached the courtyard at the same time as the company entered the city, the rams bellowing and their riders yelling for medics. 

The dwarf at the front of the party jumped down from his steed with grace that should have been impossible with the heavy armour he was wearing.  His breastplate and helmet were splattered with black blood. 

“Healers!” he roared, ripping the helmet off his head and throwing it without care to the ground. In three great strides he reached the nearest ram carrying two warriors, one slumped in the other’s embrace. “Fetch the healers, damn you!” 

But Óin had already arrived with a number of dwarves in tow. He stopped at the top of the stairs to take in the scene before him, quickly counting the wounded, before swiftly descending to reach the closest one.  

“Bilbo!” Óin yelled as he spotted the hobbit standing to the side. “Come here, lad, help me!”  

Bilbo shook himself, taking his eyes off of the bloodied helmet lying on the ground, and hastened to join Óin. The wounded dwarf had already been lowered from the ram’s back to the ground, his helmet and breastplate removed – his face was white as a sheet, dark eyes glazed over with pain. He appeared to be at the edge of unconsciousness. 

There was an awful wound in his side, oozing blood. 

“Press here,” Óin ordered sharply, grabbing Bilbo’s arm and yanking him down to his knees, “Put pressure on the wound until stretchers arrive or he will bleed out.”  

Bilbo nodded, firmly pressing his hands against the dwarf side, shushing him gently when he moaned and flinched in pain while Óin moved on to the next patient. 

“Stay still,” the hobbit urged quietly. His voice sounded weak even to his own ears, trembling, and he closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself.  

He had not seen such a gruesome wound since the battle, since _Thorin lay dying_ , and the stench of blood and moans of pain filled his ears, drowning out all sensible thought until there was nothing than the sounds of battle roaring in his head again, the screams and the moans, shrieks and bellows- 

A broad hand covered his own and Bilbo startled, almost losing his grip on the wound. His fingers were coated with blood, he noticed faintly before raising his eyes to look at the person kneeling on the warrior’s other side.  

It was the captain of the company, Bilbo realized. The dwarf’s hand pressed harder against his own, large enough to nearly cover the entire wound. His eyes, the golden colour of Hamfast’s best homebrewed mead, caught and held Bilbo’s frightened gaze. 

“Steady,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice.  

Bilbo nodded sharply, the roars of war in his ears growing fainter with each second, and the captain’s mouth twisted in a small smile.  

There was something familiar about his face, Bilbo noted: his eyes were deep-set but sharp like an eagle’s, gazing at him from under thick brows; nose long and thin, thinner than the hobbit was used to seeing on dwarven faces yet strangely familiar, but it looked as though it had been broken in the past, slightly crooked when it should have been straight; his lips (framed by chestnut whiskers and a thick beard) were thin but clearly prone to stretching into a smile if the laugh lines around the dwarf’s eyes were anything to go by. His hair, the same chestnut colour as his beard, was thick and long, plaited in a single braid that seemed to be coming undone: a few strands of hair had fallen into the dwarf’s eyes and stuck to his sharp, damp cheeks.  

He had a pleasantly deep voice, the Iron Hills accent giving it a slight lilt, so different from the rough baritone of the dwarves of Erebor. It seemed to be a voice made for singing merry songs and long, winding ballads by the fire, not somber but deep enough to convey the sweet longing that many such verses seemed to favour. 

The dwarf’s hands were very warm.  

“Move away, quickly!”  

Bilbo jerked back as Óin knelt next to them again, waving at two dwarves carrying a stretcher. The company’s leader was slower to back away, his eyes still fixed on Bilbo. The hobbit felt his cheeks flush bright red under such careful scrutiny. He turned his gaze back to the injured soldier.  

Óin moved quickly, securing and bandaging the wound as swiftly as he was able before helping the two other healers to move the soldier onto a stretcher. 

“Take this one to the hospital,” Oin barked, already rushing to another that needed his help, “and be quick about it if there’s to be any hope for him! Go!”  

The wounded soldier was whisked away immediately, and Bilbo was left standing in the middle of the courtyard with the strange captain – the other soldiers were being attended to, some able to walk on their own or supported by their comrades, but some carried away on the stretchers.  

The leader of the company watched the proceedings for a moment, clearly satisfied that his soldiers were being taken care of. Suddenly, he stopped a dwarf hurrying with a bucket of water and clean rags, murmuring to him a few words. The dwarf seemed displeased but left the bucket with a short nod.  

The captain washed his bloodied hands thoroughly, paying particular attention to the red stains around his nails and knuckles. He looked at Bilbo once he was done, inclining his head at the water in clear invitation before taking a few steps back and bending to pick up his discarded helmet. He grimaced at the bloody smudge on the polished metal before handing the headpiece to the waiting soldier with a short nod. 

“Thank you,” he said after a while. “You probably saved Grunir’s life.”  

Bilbo wiped his now clean hands on the rag and shrugged, hanging the cloth neatly on the rim of the bucket. 

“It’s the least I could do,” he said quietly, taking a step forward to avoid another dwarf rushing past him. The bucket and its dirtied contents were snatched away. 

Bilbo looked away from the leader’s intense gaze (how hard he found it to stand those eyes so focused on him!) only to land on the great battle ram making its way slowly towards them. The remaining animals were already being led away by the stable-hands but this one seemed to have other plans: it stopped behind the dwarf, nuzzling his hair and rubbing its head against the warrior’s arm to get his attention. The captain chuckled, reaching out to pat its neck and scratch the base of its horns - their tips were coated in what looked like iron, wickedly sharp.  

“There now, Bingurad,” the dwarf muttered to the animal, knocking his forehead gently against the ram’s nose. “You have done well, my friend. Some oats, I think, and a proper brushing, what do you say?” 

The ram snorted, its hooves (the size of dinner plates, or even larger!) stomping in place as though in impatience, and the dwarf laughed. Bilbo watched the exchange quietly – he hadn’t seen one of the rams from so small a distance, never finding enough courage to step into the stables to take a proper look at them, though he had dearly wished to see them away from the chaos of the battle. They were formidable animals – not much larger than ponies but fiercer and wilder - yet he couldn’t help but wonder if their noses were as soft and their coats as rough as they looked. 

The dwarf seemed to have noticed Bilbo’s curiosity. 

“Would you like to meet him?” he asked quietly with a small smile. At Bilbo’s alarmed look the captain chuckled again, hooking his arm around the ram’s neck to rest his temple against its cheek. The tip of one of the horns was very close to his eye but the dwarf seemed unbothered. “No need to be afraid. He won’t hurt you.” 

Bilbo regarded him in silence for a moment before gathering his courage and taking a few steps closer. He riddled a dragon and stood face to face with giant spiders of Mirkwood, for Yavanna’s sake. He could handle a goat! 

The great ram watched his approach calmly, but it danced away as Bilbo reached out to touch it. The hobbit gasped and jumped back, heart pounding. The captain nudged the ram with his elbow.  

“Don’t be rude,” he said sternly. He turned to Bilbo once more, beckoning him closer. “Come,” he murmured. “Slowly.” 

Bilbo allowed the captain’s fingers to close over his own – they covered his considerably smaller, cooler palm in gentle warmth, cradling it carefully as the dwarf reached out their joined hands to rest them against the ram’s nose.  

“Here,” he said, before slipping his hand away and standing behind the hobbit. “He likes having his nose stroked.” 

Bilbo chuckled at that and indeed, the horned head lowered even further under his gentle caresses.  

“What’s his name?” he asked quietly as the armoured arm entered his field of vision and dark, thick fingers rested against the ram’s head next to his smaller ones.  

“Bingurad,” the dwarf murmured, his breath stirring the hair next to Bilbo’s ear. “It means _fearless_.” 

“He’s beautiful,” Bilbo whispered and the ram, as if preening under the compliment, pressed forward slightly into the gentle touch, pushing him against the captain’s chest.  

Bilbo gasped, his eyes widening in alarm. The breastplate was hard and uncomfortable against his back but the dwarf’s hands caught his arms gently to keep him from losing his balance, and they were so warm... 

Bilbo stepped away with a quiet apology, the tips of his ears turning red in embarrassment. The captain watched him for a moment before slowly taking Bilbo’s hand in his again, leaving the hobbit with enough time to pull away if he wished to. Too stunned to do anything of the sort, Bilbo stared with wide eyes. 

“You know my friend’s name, now, and you even called him beautiful,” the dwarf said in a low voice, his burning eyes locked with Bilbo’s own. “Would you deem _me_ fair, I wonder, had I given you mine?” 

Heat rushed to the hobbit’s cheeks, his mouth opening in shock, but before he could find his tongue to respond sharply to such a bold question, another voice rose above them, deeper and rougher, demanding: 

“What is the meaning of this?!” 

Bilbo turned his head, watching with wide eyes as Thorin Oakenshield descended the stairs leading into the city, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword strapped to his waist. The King must have been in court when the Iron Hills soldiers arrived at the gates if the rich clothes and dark, luxurious looking coat adorned with jewels he was wearing were of any indication. Thankfully, the Raven Crown was nowhere to be seen; Bilbo knew that the King only wore it on special occasions, but to see Thorin in it was always almost too much for the hobbit to stand, the pain and memories of the darkest time of the quest nearly suffocating in their intensity. Now, there was a mithril circlet sitting on the King’s brow instead, the glittering silver making his eyes appear even bluer and colder than they truly were.  

And those eyes were fixed on Bilbo. 

A thunderous frown appeared on the King’s features as his gaze dropped to the hobbit’s hand still trapped in the gentle hold of the captain’s warm fingers, and Bilbo yanked his arm back as if burned. The dwarf next to him made a small sound but otherwise didn’t react – he straightened instead, taking a few steps away. He whistled sharply. As soon as the sound cut through the air, the remaining soldiers from his company formed a line behind him, standing at attention. His ram shook its great head as if annoyed, but allowed a waiting stable-hand to lead it away from its master. Bilbo watched it go sadly. He barely had any chance to take a proper look- 

“Hail Thorin King!” the captain cried, pressing his fist against his breast and bowing his head in respect. His warriors echoed the salutation, their combined voices carrying through the courtyard. Thorin inclined his head at them in silent acknowledgment.  

Still his eyes sought Bilbo’s, the frown on his brow making the hobbit shudder. 

“What is the meaning of this?” the King repeated, finally coming to a stop next to the Burglar. He obviously expected the hobbit to answer him for his burning gaze hadn’t even graced the Iron Hills captain with more than a glance.  

“I-” Bilbo stuttered, fright tying his tongue in a twist. Oh, but Thorin looked so angry and for a second the hobbit imagined saying something that would anger the King further, thick fingers wrapping themselves around his throat and- 

“THORIN!”  

The King startled, his eyes finally leaving the Burglar’s face to look at the commotion behind him.  

Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief and took a step away from the monarch. From the corner of his eye he saw the captain’s eyes narrow, golden gaze snapping back and forth between the hobbit and the King from under heavy brow. The gentleness from before was gone from his face, replaced by cold, blank expression as he looked at Thorin.  

“Dáin, for Mahal’s sake, what is it?” Thorin snapped at the approaching dwarf. But Dáin paid him no mind – the Lord hastened down the stairs, his braids askew, only to run past the King and the dumbfounded hobbit and throw his arms around the captain’s neck. 

“My son!” Dáin cried with a grin, pulling back from the other dwarf to knock their foreheads in greeting. “My darling boy!”  

The captain (and his name was apparently _Thorin_ , to make matters even more confusing for the poor hobbit) seemed embarrassed at first, but soon an answering grin lit up his face. They did look quite alike now that Bilbo had a chance to look at Dáin and his son standing next to each other, although the younger dwarf’s hair was a deeper shade than his father’s fiery colouring and his beard was much shorter, not as intricately braided. His nose, however, oh that nose Bilbo knew very well – it was a nose of a Durin, no mistake about it, save for the slight bump at its bridge that gave it a crooked appearance. 

“I had no idea your son was visiting, Dáin,” Thorin Oakenshield said slowly. He did not seem pleased at the idea of being kept in the dark. “A proper introduction is in order, I should think. I would know my own kin.”  

Dáin’s cheeks reddened a little. He cleared his throat awkwardly, taking a step away from his son but kept his hand firmly on the armoured shoulder. 

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the Lord said. “Please, allow me to present my heir, Thorin, declared ‘Stonehelm’ after his deeds at the Battle of the Five Armies, and the finest Captain of the Iron Hills Cavalry.”  

Thorin Stonehelm bowed again gravely, but Bilbo could very well see his golden eyes peeking back at him with silent amusement.  

“Well met, Thorin Stonehelm,” said the King, inclining his head. To the hobbit’s surprise, his face remained hard and set as he gazed at his cousin’s only son – not even the smallest of smiles graced his stern lips. “Your father has spoken often of you, though he neglected to tell me of your presence here.” 

Dáin looked away with a cough but before he could explain himself, the captain beat him to it. 

“My Company and I did not stay after the Battle to see you returned to the mountain, King Thorin,” he said, his voice sure and strong. “I regret to not have witnessed your coronation, my Liege, but my Lord Father wished to see the orc stragglers destroyed. We had but a two days rest after the battle before we hastened to catch up with our quarry.” 

“Yet here you are,” Thorin Oakenshield rumbled, crossing his arms on his wide chest.  

 _Why is he so displeased?_ Bilbo wondered, frowning. Surely, he was glad to meet his kin, was he not? Weren’t the dwarves always going on about how important family was to them? How very strange for Thorin to be so taciturn towards one of his own – a hobbit, now, that Bilbo would understand, Thorin had been taciturn and unpleasant since the very first day they had met, but he was always kind enough to the other dwarves, if a little distant. He was even friendly towards the Burglar after they made their peace on the Carrock, the incident with the Arkenstone notwithstanding. 

But this behaviour was very unlike the Thorin Oakenshield Bilbo knew and- 

And- 

“Aye,” Thorin Stonehelm answered, startling the hobbit out of his thoughts. The captain had leaned against his father slightly. Exhaustion, it seemed, had finally caught up with the poor dwarf, turning his dark face ashy and drawn. “Aye, that we are. We were to return to the Iron Hills after our mission but we were ambushed, your Grace. The orcs must have known we were following them. They set a trap. I have lost a dozen of my soldiers,” he added, wiping his forehead with a trembling hand. Dáin made a soft, comforting sound and tightened his grip on his son’s shoulder. “We managed to kill the foul beasts in the end, but we had many wounded. We... we had nowhere else to go. I apologize for not sending word first, but there was no time. We’ve been riding hard to get here before any more lives were lost.” 

“You have done well in coming to Erebor, Captain,” the King said after a moment, his face finally gentling into something less stern and unapproachable. “You are welcome here, of course, you and those under your command.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Stonehelm said, and now there was no doubt that it was Dáin’s strength that was keeping the dwarf upwards, for he leaned against his father so hard the Lord had to brace himself to take his weight.  

“Your Majesty, I will take the captain to the chambers next to mine, if you will allow it,” Dáin said, throwing his son a worried look. “I believe a bath is in order, and some well-deserved rest.”  

“Of course,” Thorin murmured. “Welcome to Erebor, Master Stonehelm.” 

“Thank you, my King,” the dwarf said again, but before he allowed his father to lead him away, his gaze turned to Bilbo and his lips stretched in a smile. He really was quite charming... 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Dragon Riddler,” he said, an impish glint appearing in his eyes when Bilbo turned scarlet at the title. Stonehelm hesitated for a second, then gathered himself visibly and stepped around Dáin. He approached the hobbit in two strides, catching his hand in his own and bowing over it reverently.  

“Would that I could stay by your side a little longer, Mizimel*,” he murmured, his whiskers brushing the back of Bilbo’s hand as he spoke. “Alas, I must go! Mahal willing, we shall meet again soon.” 

Had Bilbo not been embarrassed half out his mind he might have heard the sharp intake of breath coming from the King’s direction or Dáin’s low chuckle. As it was, he only stared at the Iron Hills captain, his slack hand falling to his side when the dwarf finally released it from his own. Before he had any chance to respond, Dáin was already steering his son away with an arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders. Bilbo watched them go, mouth hanging agape. The tips of his ears were burning a furious scarlet.  

As they were about to turn the corner, Thorin Stonehelm looked back at him, lifting his hand in farewell. Bilbo made to return the gesture (because his mother had raised him _very well_ , indeed, and not doing so would simply be rude), but his arm was caught in Thorin’s iron grip and he was firmly steered away. 

The hobbit yelped and almost stumbled after the monarch, missing the frown that replaced the gentle smile on Stonehelm’s face as he watched the Burglar being towed through the gates leading to the city and down an empty corridor. But poor Bilbo would be hard pressed to notice anything at all at that time – his heart was beating frantically in his chest, fright turning his blood to ice.  

He hadn’t seen Thorin so furious since the battle, since the very hand clenching his upper arm painfully had wrapped around his throat and shook him like a rabbit, teeth clattering from the force of it, and his feet had left the solid ground- 

“Thorin-” Bilbo pleaded, but the King did not hear him: he was muttering darkly do himself, a scowl marring his face. 

The hobbit’s fright swelled in his chest until his knees were shaking from it.  

“Thorin, please-” 

The dwarf stopped abruptly, turning his head to throw Bilbo a furious look. His eyes widened at the sight of the Burglar’s ghostly white face. 

“Please, you’re hurting me,” Bilbo managed to choke out through his tight throat. Thorin looked at the place where his hand was gripping the hobbit’s arm and released him as if burned.  

“I-” He cleared his throat. “My apologies, Master Baggins. I did not intend to... Are you hurt?” 

Bilbo shook his head mutely, rubbing the abused spot.  

“No harm done,” he said after a moment, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. Thorin stared at him, regret shining in his eyes. He looked so positively miserable that Bilbo took pity on him: he reached out, laying his own hand against the King’s forearm and squeezing gently. 

“Truly,” the hobbit said, his panic vanishing at the disbelieving grunt Thorin made at the back of his throat. “A little less strength, perhaps, next time? I’m no dwarf, after all.”  

The King’s pale, thin mouth relaxed slightly, allowing a tiny curve of a smile to shine through.  

“Aye, that you are not,” Thorin murmured. He thought for a moment then presented his arm to the hobbit, raising his eyebrows and bowing invitingly. “I’d be most pleased if you would walk with me, Master Baggins.” 

Bilbo snorted.  

“Pleased, indeed,” he mumbled with a smile, his fright all but forgotten in the face of this almost playful side of Thorin’s character. “That would be a sight to see, to be sure. His Majesty, _pleased_. Sooner Dain’s pig shall grow wings and fly off.” 

“Boar,” Thorin corrected, reaching out to take the hobbit’s hand in his gently and settle it on the crook of his elbow. They began walking again, slower this time. The corridor appeared deserted. Thorin’s forearm felt like a furnace against Bilbo’s palm even through his clothes. 

“Ah, of course, _boar_ , my apologies,” the hobbit said, running his fingers absentmindedly along the fine fabric. “I rather like them, especially stuffed with apples and roasted.” 

A deep chuckle made free from the King’s throat and Bilbo grinned, pleased beyond measure: it had been such a long time since he heard that lovely sound.  

“Do not let Dain hear you say such a thing,” Thorin warned, a glint of amusement turning his ice-blue eyes warm. “I am nearly convinced he loves that animal more than his own flesh and blood.” 

“Well then, I shall make sure to gobble up Master Stonehelm, instead,” the hobbit joked, but the arm under his hand tensed, hard and unyielding, and a frown slithered back onto Thorin’s forehead. The King stopped abruptly.  

Damn.  

Bilbo allowed his hand to slide off its perch on the crook of the strong dwarven elbow with regret, aware he had ruined the moment but not sure how. 

“I would have you stay away from _Master_ Stonehelm, Burglar,” Thorin said, his eyes once again cold and closed off. Bilbo swallowed, but there was stirring of a Tookish temper in his breast he had grown to know well during the journey to Erebor.  

“And why is that?” he asked, willing himself to remain calm. It would not do to rile the King up even further, and backtalk was surely the way to do so. Thorin did not take kindly to being _sassed_ , the arrogant clot-head. 

“I do not have to explain my reasons, Halfling,” the King hissed, his hands curling into fists. His face went nearly white in anger. “You will obey me in this!” 

It was the ‘halfling’ that did it. 

“I most certainly will not,” Bilbo snapped in return, crossing his arms on his chest with a scowl. “I shall befriend whoever I wish, and you have nothing to say on the matter, Thorin Oakenshield!”  

“I AM KING,” Thorin roared, his face terrifying, but Bilbo was beyond fright at his point – he was furious, indeed: he was only half aware that should anyone witness their row he’d have looked comical, huffing and puffing like a kettle in front of a dwarf a head taller than him and strong enough to knock him down with a slight shove, but he did not care. He was so angry he nearly felt faint from it.  

“You are not _my_ king!” he shouted back, jabbing Thorin’s chest with his finger. 

He knew he wasn’t strong enough to push the King away, not even _close_ , yet Thorin took a step back at the words, his furious face twisting into a look of utter despair before going completely blank. His eyes shone with hurt.  

Bilbo’s anger evaporated like smoke. 

“I- I didn’t-” Bilbo stammered, “Thorin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” 

“Do as you will,” the King snapped, then turned on his heel and stalked off, his heavy steps echoing along the empty corridor like drums. 

“Thorin!” Bilbo implored but the King was already gone. 

The hobbit rubbed his eyes, willing away the wetness that blurred his vision. 

_Bilbo, you fool of a Took._

 

  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Mizimel - Jewel of All Jewels (https://islenthatur.wordpress.com/welcome/)
> 
> To those of you wondering about 'To Have and To Hoard' I am sorry to say that I will most not be continuing the story - I have tried multiple times to go back to it, but it's been too long since I first posted it and it doesn't feel right anymore. If you wish to read it, it's still available on AO3 but the fic will forever remain WIP.
> 
> Wanna chat? Contact me at http://purrple-cat.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos - I'm so happy to know that you like this piece! You guys are the best. 
> 
> So! 
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy the second chapter :)

**CHAPTER 2**

 

HAD BILBO ever attempted to describe the Library of Erebor, be it in a book he had planned to write about the Quest or in a story to be told to the ever curious fauntlings after his return home, he would find himself hard-pressed to come up with words grand enough to do it justice.  

The library was not located in a single room – instead, there seemed to be an endless number of chambers filled with tall shelves stacked with books, adorned with nooks and crannies where one could sit for a while and read undisturbed, all connected to each other and leading back to the main hall: the first room a visitor would see upon stepping inside the library.

It was in the main hall where massive marble stairs curved upwards to what seemed like countless levels through the open space where a ceiling should be, wide and grand, even more impressive than the ever-growing stairs Bilbo had seen in the Elvenking’s palace twisting around the huge trees like snakes. The ceiling of the library was so high up the hobbit could not even see it; he liked to imagine the stairs leading on and on into the darkness above them until they reached the skies so that one – should they be brave enough to climb that high – could read among the clouds and sunshine. 

There were huge lamps casting a beautiful golden light everywhere, filling the chambers with warmth and bouncing off of the walls made from dark, polished rock. The shelves upon which the countless amounts of books sat were also made of stone, darker even than the walls, and at the end of each row there was enough space for a couple of small sofas and tables where one could sit and rest a while or peruse the tomes at leisure. There were no windows, but they were not needed – the lamps shone like little suns day and night, providing enough light to be comfortable for reading at all times. 

Thankfully, the library was spared most of the damage done by Smaug’s rampage through the mountain, the written word being of little interest to the treasure-loving wyrm. The chambers had fallen to decay after many years of neglect, true, but their foundations were strong – the passage of time made little difference to the unchanging stone. The years did more damage to the books: they were much more fragile than the rock around them, and their covers and pages turned yellowed and frail. Ori fretted that the older text might be beyond saving, yet he and Bilbo made it their mission to see the ancient tomes restored and the library brought back to its former glory.  

And so, as dusty and empty as the place was, the library was Bilbo’s most beloved place in the mountain. And it was here that he sought comfort.  

Ori, Valar bless him, was nowhere to be seen. Bilbo truly adored the dwarf, but there were times (like now) when Bilbo wished to be alone: a Baggins he might be and being sociable was one of the things his name was respected for back in the Shire, but right this moment Bilbo would have liked nothing more than to hide on the highest floor of the library and wallow in his own misery.  

How cruel he turned out to be, saying to Thorin such hurtful things.  

_A thief and a liar, indeed,_ he thought, sitting heavily on one of the more well-preserved chairs and resting his elbows on the rickety table. For he did lie, oh, he did – Thorin _was_ his King, the only King Bilbo would ever swear his loyalty to, and yet anger made a liar out of him.  

_Now you’ve done it, Baggins. The_ _moment_ _he spoke to you again like he used to and you went and put your hairy foot in it._  

_He needn’t_ _’ve_ _been_ _so churlish,_ he argued, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. _Such a brute, manhandling a hobbit and demanding obedience! Telling me whom to befriend, honestly, the nerve of that dwarf!_  

But even as he argued with himself, Bilbo’s anger had long since disappeared. Only regret remained – he missed Thorin so, even his unmannered, boorish self. Last time he had seen the King they hardly spoke and now, when the dwarf finally _smiled_ at him and talked to him like a friend again, Bilbo let his pride get the better of him.  

Oh, but how lonely Bilbo was in this horrid, drafty mountain, how miserable! 

He thought of Bag End, his armchair and garden, and he missed it with such fierce longing that tears came to his eyes and finally made their way down his cheeks.  

How he wished to be away from this awful, awful pain! Away from Thorin and his cold eyes, away from the memories of the trice-damned battle and the gold-sickness that hounded his every step like black dogs snapping at his heels.  

Not even his dwarves could make the ache go away. Bilbo doubted they even noticed the hobbit’s misery – they were all so busy with the restoration of their home, after all, and so happy to finally return to the ancient halls of Erebor. Oftentimes, in the darkness of the night, Bilbo wished selfishly that they were all still on the road, sitting around the fire and telling stories, joking and laughing and teasing the poor hobbit into a snit until he was all red in the face but giggling uncontrollably despite his embarrassment.  

Those were the moments of the Quest he will remember most fondly for the rest of his life, he was sure.  

But the Journey had ended. There were no more roads for the dwarves to take; only Bilbo was far away from home now, so far that sometimes he thought the Shire seemed more like a beautiful dream than reality – that Bag End, with its round windows and green doors, was nothing but the makings of own imagination. 

His Journey was not at an end. And will not be for a long time yet. 

Bilbo wiped the tears off his cheeks angrily, cursing the Winter under his breath. But try as he might, he could not will Nature to obey his wishes: Winter will come and then Spring after that. 

And Bilbo will finally go home.  

No more darkness, no more misery – only his beloved Shire, with its green rolling hills and fields of golden barley, little rivers and forests and _life_. He only had to suffer through Winter and he will be free: free to leave the awful memories behind him, free to forget the longing in his heart for the friendship of a Dwarf King. 

In his darkest moments Bilbo nearly wished that Thorin had died on the battlefield; he wished he could go home with the memories of a dwarf who asked for his forgiveness, who looked upon him with such affection in those sky-blue eyes, and he would have missed Thorin fiercely but at least... at least he would have that – not the badly hidden contempt, not the polite but meaningless words. He would have given Thorin forgiveness, he would have been forgiven in return. They would have parted in friendship and Bilbo would have missed him for the rest of his life. But the pain would have surely dulled with time until there was nothing left but the sweet memories of the true friendship that reunited them in the end. 

Every time those dark thoughts entered his mind Bilbo would shake himself, horror making his blood turn to ice and bile rise in his throat. He could never wish Thorin dead, not ever, not _truly._ Yet his own mind betrayed him with such awful visions and only the comforting shape of an acorn he still carried in his pocket seemed to chase the shadows away. 

_To live without Thorin in this world, why, it would be the greatest torture of all._  

Only imagine such a thing, the horror of it! Thorin laid in stone, his body lax and still in death... no, Bilbo’s poor heart would be able not stand it. The King could send him as many glares as he desired, he could kick him out of the Mountain if he so wished, yet the hobbit would never wish for death to claim his greatest friend. 

He will return to the Shire, and in the Shire he will remain for the rest of his life. He could send a few letters to his dear friends from the comfort of his own armchair, and perhaps they would write back, telling him of Erebor’s prosperity and how happy they were in the reclaimed Mountain. Maybe the King himself would respond and the torn bonds of friendship could be stitched back together over the pages of carefully penned correspondence. He would cherish those letters, every single one of them. He would never see Thorin again, but at least he’d know that the Dwarf Lord was well and happy in his home. That was all that mattered. 

But the Shire was hundreds of miles away and Bilbo will not be returning home for a while yet. He was stuck in the Lonely Mountain until the roads were deemed safe enough for travel. 

So. He had to fix the mess he had made.  

His eyes were sore and puffy, the lids hot - he pressed his cool fingers against them with a relieved sigh and leaned back in his chair. He sat unmoving for a while, allowing himself a moment to simply breathe. 

“Bilbo?” 

The hobbit startled, yanking his hands away from his face. He blinked owlishly at the person standing nearby. 

Ori watched him for a moment, face gentling at the sight of the hobbit’s reddened eyes. 

“You missed dinner,” the dwarf said quietly, reaching out to rest his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “We worried.”  

Bilbo chuckled faintly. 

“No need, no need,” he muttered, patting Ori’s arm in reassurance. “I’m not hungry, dear Ori. Only tired.”  

“Not hungry? That’s something I thought I would never hear coming from you, my friend,” the dwarf joked, his eyes full of concern. “But come, let me walk you back to your quarters. You look exhausted, have you not been sleeping?”  

Bilbo allowed the scribe to help him stand but waved the offered arm away – he could walk by himself, thank you.  

“Never enough hours in a day, it seems, for a proper rest,” Bilbo said jokingly, but Ori shot him a worried look.  

“You will run yourself ragged if you continue like this, Bilbo,” he warned, leading them towards the library’s main doors. “Thor- _We_ would never forgive ourselves should anything happen to you. You must rest. The restoration of the mountain can wait for a day or two. I don’t think I have seen you take some time off since the coronation and that was _weeks_ ago.”  

Ah, yes, the coronation.  

He remembered that day well – never had a Baggins witnessed such a thing after all (or any other hobbit) and he was quite sure the memories of it had burned themselves into his mind, forever to remain fresh and clear as though it had happened only the day before. 

How proud he had been then, how happy to see Thorin and the lads dressed in the finest clothes they could find, standing tall and proud in front of hundreds of witnesses. How overjoyed the princes had looked as the people cheered for them, the beautifully crafted golden circlets on their heads shining in the light of the setting sun, their grins equally bright and lovelier than any jewel could ever be.  

And Thorin... Oh, in Bilbo’s eyes Thorin had never looked more like a Dwarf Lord than in that moment, his head raised proudly to meet the weight of his grandfather’s crown when Gandalf lowered it upon his brow, his sky-blue eyes shining with pride and happiness (still Bilbo shuddered at the sight of the damned thing Thorin’s head). And though his body was still mostly wrapped in bandages under his ceremonial robes, Thorin had stood strong and sure, his face glowing as the dwarves of Iron Hills and the Men of Lake Town cheered for him and his heirs (Thranduil and his entourage simply inclined their heads, silent and stiff), their combined voices echoing in the grand hall louder that a dragon’s roar.  

“Long live the King!” Gandalf had cried then and the people returned the salutation, all bowing as Thorin stepped upon the dais and sat on the throne of his forebears with Kili and Fili on either side. Bilbo will forever remember how Thorin’s eyes had met his in that moment, shining like stars, and the hobbit had bowed with the rest, happiness filling him to the brim until he thought he would burst from it.  

“The King has announced a feast to take place on the morrow,” Ori’s voice snapped Bilbo out of his memories, “to welcome Dáin’s son in Erebor.” 

“A feast? Is that wise?” the hobbit asked, smiling at a group of passing dwarves that greeted them cheerily.  

His thoughts, unbidden, moved to Master Stonehelm. The Iron Hills captain really was quite charming – perhaps a little odd and a bit too brash in his advances (“ _Would you deem me fair”, honestly!_ ), but despite his bold words, he had a kind, honest smile.

_I wonder if he’d be willing to_ _b_ _e_ _friend_ _a hobbit_ , Bilbo mused, the tips of his ears flushing pink.  

Unaware of the Burglar’s wandering thoughts, Ori chuckled, leading them towards the royal quarters.  

“Not to worry, Master Baggins,” the scribe assured him. “With Dáin’s supplies and the trade agreements with Mirkwood and Dale renewed we have enough to spare some food and ale on the celebration. It won’t be as grand as the feasts of old, to be sure, but we are in no danger of running low on supplies. Bombur tells me they should easily last us until Spring, or even Summer if need be.” 

“Thorin is trading with Mirkwood,” Bilbo shook his head with a weak smile. “Will wonders ever cease?”  

Ori laughed, wrapping his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders as they stopped at the doors to his chambers. He hugged the hobbit briefly. 

“I am no less surprised than you, my friend. But please, get some rest. I will let the others know to not disturb you today.”  

Bilbo nodded, grateful for the dwarf's understanding.  

“Thank you, Ori,” he muttered. “Give the Company my best, won’t you, there’s a good lad.”  

The scribe seemed amused at being called a _lad_ by someone much younger than him in years, but he only inclined his head in agreement and left with a quiet “rest well.”  

Bilbo was alone once more.  

He entered his quarters, pleased that the fire was already lit, and sank into the chair in front of fireplace. It was wide enough to allow him to curl up in it comfortably, even doze for a while without getting a crick in the neck. 

Yet sleep was the last thing on his mind. 

He sat unmoving for what felt like hours, trying to think of ways to make amends with Thorin. He wasn’t even hungry – his stomach was too twisted with nerves; he puffed his pipe until his throat felt raw from too much smoke.  

Nothing came into his mind. He had no idea how dwarves went about such things. He could ask Bofur, he supposed, the miner being most forthcoming with the traditions of his people and willing to humour the Burglar’s curiosity about their customs. But Bilbo was a hobbit - he should apologize like a hobbit, even if he lived in a mountain with a bunch of dwarves now.  

Flowers, perhaps? Purple hyacinths, with some blue violets and geraniums for good measure.  

Bilbo flushed. Maybe he could smuggle a pink camellia into the bouquet. After all, what harm could it do? Thorin knew about flowers as much as Bilbo knew about gems: that is to say, _nothing._ Besides, a single camellia wouldn’t be that out of place – a whole bouquet of them _might_ have raised a few eyebrows in the Shire – and if Thorin asked about it, Bilbo could simply say that he missed the King. As a _friend_. Naturally.  

Perhaps a flower crown then? Bilbo chuckled, trying to imagine Thorin’s black-and-silver mane decorated with ribbons and flowers. Blue and white, to bring out those eyes of his. Bilbo’s ears reddened at the image and something fluttered oddly in his stomach. He patted it absentmindedly.  

But while he would look fetching with blossoms in his hair, Thorin knew nothing of the language of flowers: giving him a bouquet or a crown in apology would be pointless. Bilbo would probably die of embarrassment if he had to explain their meaning and, in any case, flowers and ribbons were hardly a gift fit for a ruler of an ancient dwarven kingdom. 

Bilbo snorted unhappily. What could a hobbit possibly give to a _King_? He was no dwarf - he had no idea how to work a forge or an anvil, or how to craft jewelry. He had no skills in _making_ things. He could grow a tomato plant in clay ground if need be, but creating beautiful artifacts worthy of a Dwarf Lord out of a lump of gold was beyond him. Back in the Shire, amends could be made with baked goods or a favourite meal – but Thorin had kitchens full of wonderful cooks who would be more than happy to prepare whatever the King desired, or he could order some exotic delicacies in Dale... 

Bilbo sat up, smacking his hand against his forehead with a yelp. Of course!  

The City of Dale! 

_There must be something in Dale that would please Thorin,_ Bilbo thought with excitement. _Perhaps the markets are not what they used to be_ _yet_ _, but surely there will be enoug_ _h_ _to choose from. And wasn’t there_ _a_ _merchant_ _who sold most excellent wares from as far as_ _Harad_ _?_  

Pleased with himself, Bilbo stood from his chair and stretched leisurely. He really was quite tired and now that he had the beginning of a plan brewing, he felt much better about himself.  

“Sleep,” he said out loud, tapping his pipe against the mantle to clean it. “Sleep and rest, and tomorrow we shall see about visiting Dale.” 

Nodding to himself with satisfaction, Bilbo went to his bedroom, changed into his nightshirt and collapsed onto the bed. 

He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language of Flowers (source:https://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/archives/parsons/publications/flowers/flowers.html)
> 
> Hyacinth (Purple) - I am Sorry, Please Forgive Me, Sorrow  
> Violet (Blue) - Watchfulness, Faithfulness, I'll Always Be There  
> Geranium - Stupidity, Folly  
> Camellia (Pink) - Longing For You
> 
> Wanna chat? Contact me at: http://purrple-cat.tumblr.com/


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kind comments and kudos! Your support means more than I can say.  
> Please enjoy the next chapter! 
> 
> Apologies for any and all typos :D

CHAPTER 3

BILBO WOKE up to the sound of knocking. 

He opened his eyes a little, confused for a moment as to where he was, then closed them again. He turned his back to the bedroom door, hoping that whoever stood outside his rooms would give up and leave if he simply ignored them. The bed was so warm under the covers and furs, and he was still so tired...

The knocking turned into pounding and Bilbo cursed under his breath. He got up from the warm bed, muttering about unwanted guests coming for a visit at ungodly hours of the morning, and groggily put on his dressing gown - one of his first purchases at the reopened markets of Dale. 

The markets were not what they used to be, of that there was no question. Most of the city was still in ruins, although the Men worked hard to restore as much as they could before winter. Still the trade flourished, slowly but surely – the tale of the reclamation of the Mountain had spread far and wide across the land, as did the stories of its riches. Merchants from all over Middle Earth had begun to flock to it like starved birds to seeds, and though Dale still had a long way to become what it used to be, it didn’t seem to bother the traders: they knew of the generosity King Thorin bestowed upon the Men of Lake Town after the battle and all wanted to share in the riches of Erebor. 

Bilbo bought the dressing gown on a whim and paid for it too much (of that he was very well aware, no matter what the merchant had said), but the material it was made of was unfamiliar to him, beautiful, soft and flowing like water against skin, and he indulged in this little luxury. He had an inkling that it might have been sown with a child of Men in mind, but he cared little: the piece was a stunning dark blue with curling tendrils of silver thread stitched in the shape of vines and leaves – he thought it suited him very well, indeed.

The pounding continued and Bilbo cursed again. The fire had long since burned out in the grate: a chill settled in his rooms, making Bilbo shudder as the cold air brushed against his sleep-warmed skin. 

“For Yavanna’s sake, keep your hair on!” Bilbo shouted as the pounding grew louder, making him rush to the door. “Making such a racket so early in the morn, have you completely-”

He yanked the door open.

The next thing he saw was his own ceiling. He blinked at it dumbly, wondering how on earth he even ended up on his back on the cold floor, but then a dull throb in his cheek reminded him of a large, dwarven fist flying towards him as he opened the door. 

“Kili,” he moaned when a pale face appeared in his line of vision. 

“Bilbo! I am so sorry! Are you alright?” 

The hobbit sat up slowly, wincing as he rubbed his tender cheek. 

“Whatever is the matter with you, lad? Knocking on doors and punching respectable folk so early in the morning, have you lost what little sense you had?”

“Should I refrain from punching until after lunch then?” Kili asked cheekily, helping Bilbo stand. He looked chastised when the Burglar sent him a glare in response, but a grin soon broke across his face again. “I really am sorry, Master Boggins. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I promise.” 

Bilbo waved his apologies away. “No matter, you didn’t hit me that hard,” he said, “and I guess it was my fault for opening the door in such a rush. Which reminds me... why are you here so early?” 

Kili stared at him for a moment, then pursed his lips as though trying to stop laughter.

“Bilbo, it’s nearly time for your second breakfast,” the prince said, making himself comfortable on Bilbo’s chair. “I wanted to make sure you’re alright. Ori said you were exhausted yesterday. Uncle worried you have fallen sick when you didn’t appear for the meal this morning, so I promised to check on you.”

Bilbo rubbed his chilly hands together, the back of his neck flushing pink at the mention of the King.

“He- he did?” he inquired, trying to not sound hopeful. 

“ _We_ did,” Kili assured him, and Bilbo nodded sadly – of course Thorin wouldn’t worry about him. Not after... after...

“And,” Kili continued, picking at a piece of loose thread coming out of the seam of his sleeve. He suddenly wouldn’t meet Bilbo’s eye. “I wanted to talk to you before Balin could send me off on some _royal business_ or other.”

The prince said “royal business” as though it was a curse, not his duty, and the hobbit smirked a little. 

“You’re not using me to skip your princely duties, are you, Kili?” 

The dwarf leaned back in the chair with a dramatic sigh, throwing his arm across his eyes like a swooning damsel. Bilbo giggled at the sight.

“You must help me, Master Boggins,” Kili moaned. “You _must_! I have to visit Dale today or my soul will wither away and I will die in agony! I cannot wait any longer, Bilbo, I must see Tauriel! Please, say you will help me sneak out of the mountain!” 

The hobbit was well aware that the elven guard they had met in Mirkwood during the Quest was now a resident of Dale – Thranduil had refused to lift his banishment and she could not return to the forest without risking death. He also knew of Kili’s passionate love for her and, he suspected, hers for the dwarf prince. Still, such a union would not be welcomed, not in Erebor and not in Mirkwood, for the hatred both races held for each other ran deep. If Thorin ever found out....

But Bilbo Baggins was a romantic at heart and he would be damned if he allowed such folly as centuries of distrust and hatred get in the way of true love, Thorin’s temper be damned. There were worse ways to die than helping star-crossed lovers.

“There will be no sneaking,” he said, and the prince’s face fell with disappointment. Bilbo walked towards his bedroom to change into something more appropriate, but stopped in the doorway and looked back at the dejected prince. “I was planning on a trip to Dale today myself. You will accompany me, of course, to protect me from any dangers. It was your uncle’s command, was it not, to not allow me to wander alone?” 

Kili’s delighted woops and laughter followed him to his bedroom and Bilbo smiled to himself. 

_Ah, to be in love!_

*

They left the mountain undisturbed save for the curious glances of the sentries guarding the front gates. To reach Dale in as timely a manner as possible, Bilbo had foregone breaking his fast at the main hall, squirreling away a few honey cakes from the kitchens to eat on the road instead. 

It was a pleasant day for an excursion like this – the sun was shining its cold, winter rays and although the frost that settled on the ground in the early morning had melted away, the air was crisp and fresh, a harbinger of more icy days to come. 

They chatted amiably as they rode, but Bilbo would be a fool not to notice that Kili’s mind had wandered, probably imagining the reunion with his sweetheart. He wondered for a moment if they should have taken a few guards with them – Kili was a prince, after all – but the roads were safe since the reclamation of Erebor, especially the way leading down to Dale and further down to Lake-Town: there were patrols ensuring the safety of travelers, hunting the hills around Erebor for any stray orc or packs of wolves. Besides, Kili was more than capable of defending himself should the situation arise and Bilbo was no weakling when it came to wielding a blade either: he was no master by any means, but he did well enough with Sting. There were a few giant spiders that could vouch for that. 

Their ponies were sweet animals, if a bit spoiled after the pampering they no doubt experienced in the royal stables – their manes were neatly braided and brushed, their hides glossy and their hooves clean – but their legs were strong and their gait swift (although Bilbo’s steed had stopped a few times on the road to nibble on a greener patch of grass, deaf to its rider’s commands to move on).

As it was, it took them a couple of hours to reach the gates of the Dale. The guards let them in without a second glace – both Kili and Bilbo were well known in Dale, much like the rest of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield – and the noise and smell of the market hit them with full force. 

“I’ll take the ponies to the stables,” Kili said, jumping down from his animal.

“Remember there is a feast tonight, Kili,” Bilbo warned, wagging his finger at the prince but allowing him to help him down from the pony’s back. “We must return to Erebor as soon as we can. Meet me back at the stables in a couple of hours, there’s a good lad. And no dilly-dallying!” 

Kili’s face fell a little at that, but then his eyes snapped up and widened, a besotted grin spreading on his face in an instant and Bilbo sighed, turning his head a little to look. 

Tauriel was easy to spot in the crowd of Men and dwarves – her red hair shone in the cold light like a flame, her beautiful face fairer than any other that surrounded them. She was walking slowly towards them, turning her head this way and that, clearly looking for something. She had not yet seen them – Bilbo allowed Kili a few seconds to admire his sweetheart from afar, then he waved and cried: “Tauriel! Here, my dear!”

The elf snapped her gaze in their direction. Her eyes landed on Bilbo for a second, then moved frantically to the dwarf next to him. A pale blush appeared on her cheeks as she hastened to join them, never looking away from Kili, gracefully sidestepping any passersby that could get in her way. 

She stopped a few paces away from them, her smile a gentle but breathtaking little thing, and Bilbo heard Kili made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He smirked. 

“Hello, my dear!” Bilbo greeted her. “How are you, I haven’t seen you in weeks! How fares Dale?” 

“I’m well, Master Baggins,” she answered, her gaze moving slowly away from the Prince to Bilbo. She smiled, inclining her head in greeting. “It is good to see you, my friend. Dale continues to rebuild apace, as you see. I help where I can, but Men can be unusually resourceful when pressed.” 

“Of course, of course.” Bilbo could almost feel Kili vibrating with excitement next to him and he took pity on the young lovers when Tauriel’s gaze moved to the prince again and again, the affection in her eyes as clear as day. “Well, why don’t you show the prince around, there’s a good lass. I’m sure he’ll be most interested to see the city, won’t you Kili?” 

“What?” the dwarf mumbled, his own eyes glazed over as he kept staring at the elf. Bilbo elbowed him sharply. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. If you don’t mind, Lady Tauriel.”

Tauriel’s blush deepened and the hobbit bit back a giggle at the sight. A blushing elf! The world was coming to an end. 

“Not at all, my prince,” she said softly. 

“Off you go then, Kili, and do make sure the ponies are in the stables before you run off to Yavanna knows where,” Bilbo said, his gaze stern. “Meet me here in a couple of hours – we must make haste to reach the mountain in time for the feast or your uncle will have both our heads.” 

“Sure, Master Boggins,” Kili said, already reaching out to pull Tauriel away by the hand with a cheeky smile. “Whatever you say. Bye!” 

“Two hours!” Bilbo yelled after them, watching with a pleased grin as they walked towards the stables hand in hand with their ponies trotting behind them. Kili waved back in answer but soon him and Tauriel disappeared in the crowd moving to and fro and Bilbo was left alone. 

“Well now,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his hands together. “You have some shopping to do, old chap!” 

He walked slowly towards the market, returning cheery greeting and smiles from Men and Dwarves alike. He felt much better – a full night of sleep and a solid plan did him a world of good – but doubt began creeping in the closer he came to the first stalls. 

What if he couldn’t find anything suitable for Thorin? Or bought something that _seemed_ suitable but turned out awful or insulting to the King?

What if... what if Thorin refused to accept his apology? 

_Well_ , Bilbo thought, gathering his courage, _I have to try, even if he will not accept. And if he won’t, why, he’d prove being more of a blockhead than I think him to be!_

The noise of the Market soon swept his darkening mood away, however, as the sound of laughter and good-natured haggling reached his ears and the smell of sweets and good food hit his nose. He felt his mouth water, but Bilbo sternly told himself to keep moving – he had no time to waste, after all! The food stalls will have to wait for his next visit. 

In the grayness of early winter, the colors on each stall seemed to pop even brighter, turning the city lively and beautiful despite the derelict houses surrounding them. The people were laughing and smiling around him – even those hurrying to and fro with tools in their hands, dusty and tired from the hard work they were doing day after day to restore as much of the city as they could before winter, were greeting their neighbors and strangers alike with a smile and a kind word. 

There were many a dwarf in Dale as well, lending their skill to those in need on the King’s order, and it seemed that despite the initial mistrust, both races were well into becoming fast friends. Dwarves tolled side to side with Men, chatting amiably and trading jokes, the lilting accent of the Iron Hill’s dwarves and their boisterous laughter catching Bilbo’s attention immediately. 

As he turned to look at the group of jolly workers with a smile, he had failed to notice a figure stepping in front of him – he collided with a strong chest and would have fallen onto his rump in the middle of the markets had quick, strong arms not caught him in time. Bilbo yelped in surprise, flinging his hands out to grab onto _something_ to help him keep his balance. 

“Gracious me, I am so sorry-” Bilbo began once he caught his breath, realizing that his hands were holding on for dear life onto a pair of forearms clad in soft leather. 

“No need to apologize. It is a pleasure to have you in my arms once more, Master Baggins.” A deep voice laden with amusement said, and Bilbo’s head shot up to meet the twinkling gaze of Thorin Stonehelm. 

“You!” Bilbo squeaked, digging his fingers into the leather of the dwarf’s vambraces in surprise. “What are you doing here?!” 

Stonehelm chuckled, his arms tightening to bring the hobbit a little closer to him. The leaned down as though to share a secret and Bilbo automatically turned his head to the side to hear him better.

_A mistake_ , he thought faintly as warm breath ticked his ear and a deep voice rumbled entirely _too close._

“I love my father dearly, Master Baggins, but he can be s a handful when’s he’s worried. I thought Dale would provide a much-needed respite from his nagging _and_ I have heard that Men needed all the help they can get. So here I am.”

Bilbo leaned back to look the dwarf over, and indeed his clothes were fine but coated with a layer of dust and there was dirt on his cheeks and nose. He was smiling that awful, gentle smile that made Bilbo’s insides twist a little.

He did look rather charming, all things considered. For a dwarf.

The hobbit took a step back and the dwarf let him go immediately, his hands lingering on Bilbo’s arms for a fraction of a second before withdrawing.

“I had not expected to see you till tonight’s festivities, Master Baggins,” the dwarf said, his eyes never leaving the hobbit. “I am pleased to have a chance to speak to you before that.”

“I do not believe we were introduced,” Bilbo sniffed, embarrassment turning his voice sharp. He winced internally as the kind smile on the Captain’s face changed into a look of concern. 

“My sincerest apologies,” Stonehelm hastened to say with a bow, pressing his hand against his chest. “I did not mean to take liberties-”

“No need, I’m sorry,” Bilbo replied quickly, suddenly ashamed of making the comment in the first place. Thorin Stonehelm was nothing but gracious and well-behaved; a little brash, to be fair, but he was respectful and kind, and the hobbit was sure that had he told the dwarf his words made him uncomfortable, he would stop immediately. He did not deserve to be chastised for something as silly as a lack of formal introduction. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” 

Stonehelm watched him for a moment, then bowed again, his eyes never leaving Bilbo’s face.

“Thorin Stonehelm. Eternally at yours, Master Baggins,” he murmured. Bilbo could feel his cheeks heat under the dwarf’s intense gaze. 

He cleared his throat

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said awkwardly. “How very pleasant to have met you, I’m sure. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

“May I accompany you, Master Baggins?” Thorin asked quickly, stepping up to Bilbo’s side and presenting his arm. “It would be my pleasure.” 

“Are you not here to help the Men?” Bilbo inquired with a small frown and Stonehelm smiled reassuringly. 

“I have all but been chased away, I’m afraid. It is not my eagerness to help that is in question, you understand, but I am,” here he lowered his voice so that only Bilbo was able to hear him, “a terrible klutz, Master Baggins.” 

A startled laugh left Bilbo’s throat at that. As Stonehelm’s deep chuckle joined his, Bilbo finally allowed himself to put his hand on the dwarf’s offered arm. 

“That I cannot believe,” he said with a smile. The soldier shot him an amused look. 

“I’m afraid it’s true,” he said happily. “My reputation is in shambles after today. I almost lost my thumb to a hammer and my head to a saw. I _might_ have tripped over a pile of tools. No, Master Baggins, I am a laughing stock of my regiment – a sword and a shield I can deal with, I can be even graceful in a fight if my father is to be believed; but give me a hammer and tell me to fix things and I am lost.” 

“I thought dwarves are handy with tools of all kinds,” Bilbo said curiously. They started walking along the stalls, the hobbit’s eyes never leaving the presented wares though most of his attention was focused on the dwarf at his side. 

“Not me,” Stonehelm said with a laugh, “We all choose a craft, that’s true, but my heart has always called for the army.”

“What craft did you choose?” Bilbo asked, stopping to look at some pretty hair ornaments sold by a young lass with rosy cheeks and a wide smile. 

“Jewelry,” the Captain said with a grimace. “But I never excelled at it. I’m skilled enough to make pretty baubles, but I am not a Master like my mother. She can craft most excellent, beautiful items you can imagine, Master Baggins, flawless and pure as though Mahal himself guided her hand.”

“She sounds amazing,” Bilbo said, taking a beautiful jade pin to admire up close. 

“She is,” Stonehelm replied softly, a small smile gracing his lips. “Now you know my shame, Master Baggins: I am as clumsy as a newborn fawn when there are no swords nor shields weighing me down to keep me on my feet.” 

Bilbo giggled, shooting the dwarf a grin over his shoulder. 

“You seem to be doing well,” the hobbit teased and the soldier laughed; the sound was so cheerful that a few passersby turned to look at them and smile in return.

“Only because I have you to hold on to, Master Baggins.” Stonehelm joked with a wide grin. His eyes were twinkling mischievously. “Say you shan’t let me go, sweet hobbit, or I will surely fall to my doom.”

A blush once again graced the hobbit’s cheeks. 

“You are very odd,” Bilbo said, nodding in thanks to the merchant who offered him a sample of one of his sweet creations: a jelly cube dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar. Bilbo bit into the gift as he gazed at the dwarf thoughtfully. 

There was a faint red tinge to Thorin Stonehelm’s dark cheeks. His eyes moved to the remaining half of the treat in Bilbo’s hand, then to his lips and finally back to meet his eye. He swallowed.

“Is that a bad thing?” He asked, his voice a little strangled. Bilbo frowned and popped the rest of the sweet jelly into his mouth. 

“I haven’t decided yet,” he said, wiping his lips to make sure there was no sugar left anywhere on his face. He turned to the merchant: “These are _very_ good. I’ll take some more for the princes, I think, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The merchant certainly did not mind if his delight was anything to go by, and he readily accepted Bilbo’s coin for the sweets. 

Yet Bilbo still had not found anything for the King. There were plenty of stalls with pretty baubles and hair ornaments, but Thorin had dozens of much finer things at Erebor-

A stall half hidden in the corner caught his eye then. He let go of Stonehelm’s arm and hastened to look at the wares. The merchant was a dwarf with dark, shrewd eyes. He seemed to be selling all kinds of items made from leather – vambraces and chest pieces, gloves and belts and intricately braided ornaments. 

A pair of deep red gloves caught Bilbo’s attention and he squinted at them, the scale pattern oddly familiar- 

“Smaug!” he cried, bending over the bench to take a closer look. “Those are Smaug’s scales, aren’t they?”

“They seem like it, aye,” the merchant said with a smug grin, “You have a keen eye, sir. They’re not actually the wyrm's scales – too hard to cut through the stuff, unfortunately, but those are the second-best thing: the skin of one of the great Red Lizards that live by the shores of River Harnen in Harad, hard as iron! The toughest material I have ever worked with, but the result is more than worth it. Are they not the finest pair you have ever seen, little master?” 

“They are,” Bilbo murmured. The gloves were indeed glorious – hard red scales on the outside, with sturdy black velvet lining on the inside to protect the wearer’s skin, polished to high shine.

They were too big for Bilbo to wear.

But they would be a perfect fit for a certain dwarf King.

“I’ll take them,” Bilbo said excitedly. 

 

*

“I haven’t a piece of gold left!” Bilbo whined as he left the stall and joined Thorin Stonehelm once again, his hands wrapped protectively around the package containing his purchase. “He wouldn’t even haggle!”

Stonehelm chuckled at that, offering to carry the hobbit’s parcel, but Bilbo shook his head.

“Dwarves do not haggle, Master Baggins,” he said with a laugh at Bilbo’s scandalized glare. “We are too well aware of the value of our wares – a dwarf will never sell for anything less than his creations deserve.”

“Not all dwarves,” Bilbo murmured, thinking back to the tale of a young dwarf prince selling his skills for less to feed his people. “But I suppose those were worth the coin” he said with a nod at the package. “Now, you may accompany me to the stables, if you wish.”

Stonehelm looked at him curiously. 

“I am surprised that you bought them,” he said after a while of walking in silence. “Those gloves are much too big for you, after all. I would understand a need to have a memento of your fallen enemy, I suppose, had I thought you to be that kind of creature.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, those are not actually Smaug’s scales, you’ve surely heard the dwarf. Besides, why would I want to keep anything of Smaug? No, thank you! What a silly idea. I’ve faced him once and that was more than enough – why would I want to see _any_ part of him anywhere near me again boggles the mind.”

“Peace, Master Baggins,” Stonehelm implored with a grin. “I was simply curious.”

Bilbo felt the tips of his ears heat up.

“They’re a gift,” he said softly after a while. “And an apology.” 

The Captain looked at him for a moment, then inclined his head. 

“I understand,” he said with a small smile “You are a kind soul, Master Baggins.” 

Bilbo shrugged.

“I try to be kind,” he admitted quietly. “Every day, I try my hardest to be kind to everyone. But sometimes anger makes us say things we do not mean, cruel things and lies, and we hurt those we lo- those we care about the most even when we don’t want to.”

“Yes,” the dwarf replied, his eyes soft. “But, as you said, _you try_. You _choose_ to be good; you _choose_ to smile and to offer a kind word to everyone. Sometimes you will fail – it's inevitable – but it is still a choice you make every day, to offer kindness instead of cruelty. You fought with your friend; perhaps you said something cruel. But still, you try to make it better. This is why you are a kind soul, Master Baggins. And I admire you for it.”

Bilbo wiped his hand across his eyes, forcing himself not to cry. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, in response to such sweet words, when a cry of “BILBO!” captured his attention. 

Kili was waving at him frantically, grinning like a fool from ear to ear. Tauriel was watching him with a smile of her own – her hair was strangely mussed, as though she tried to pat it down into something more respectable, and Bilbo smirked at her. 

“Yes, yes, I’m here, no need to shout, lad!” Bilbo said gruffly, rolling his eyes at Stonehelm’s amused huff. “Are you ready to leave?”

“No, but if we must, we must,” the prince grumbled, his eyes widening a little at the sight of the Iron Hill’s Captain. “Oh! We have not been introduced yet, I believe.” 

“Oh, right,” Bilbo stammered, surprised. He had thought the two princes would make Stonehelm’s acquaintance at breakfast. Apparently not.

“Prince Kili, I present to you Thorin Stonehelm, son of Dain, Lord of the Iron Hills,” Bilbo said awkwardly, unsure of the formality of such a meeting, but Kili winked at him cheekily. 

“At your service, Your Highness,” the Captain said, bowing with respect. Kili inclined his head in return.

“A pleasure, Master Stonehelm. Dain wouldn’t shut up about you!”

“Kili!”

“It’s true!”

Stonehelm laughed.

“Please, call me Thorin, my Prince,” he said with a chuckle. “We are kin, after all.”

“Then you must call me Kili!” the young prince ordered good-naturedly, always eager to make a new friend. “This is Tauriel, my... my companion. Bilbo, are you ready to go?” 

Stonehelm’s eyes lingered on the elf standing stiffly at the prince’s side, but he made no comment – his keen eyes moved between her and the prince a few times thoughtfully, yet his smile remained kind and his gaze soft. 

“Lady Tauriel,” he murmured with a short bow. Bilbo smiled at him as Tauriel returned the greeting, obviously relieved. 

“Yes, we must go,” Bilbo chimed in. He looked to the dwarf at his side. “Are you returning to the mountain?” 

“Indeed,” Thorin Stonehelm turned to him, waving at the stable-hand waiting nearby. “I shall accompany you, if you do not mind. I detest traveling alone.” 

“You are welcome to join us,” Kili said, shooting Bilbo a grateful look – as the other dwarf turned to face the hobbit, the prince had bid his heartfelt goodbye to Tauriel. Kili’s joyfull face fell a little. “Though I am sorry our visit had to be so short.”

Bilbo rested his hand on the prince’s shoulder comfortingly. “We shall return soon, my dear lad, don’t you worry.” 

“I will write,” Tauriel said quietly with a sad smile on her beautiful face.

“I’ll wait,” Kili replied, and his words were so heavy with promise that Bilbo was sure he was not speaking about letters at all. His heart went out to the star-crossed lovers and tears pricked his eyes again. He shook his head to clear his head – it would not do to make a scene.

The elf nodded, her gaze drinking in the sight of the dwarf prince before her. Then she turned on her heel, and left. 

“Well,” Kili said sadly as Tauriel’s fiery head disappeared in the crowd. “Shall we go?”

Their ponies were waiting for them already, brushed and fed. Thorin helped Bilbo to mount his animal, his hands and smile gentle, and they left Dale in haste to reach the mountain before nightfall.

*

_I should have expected this,_ Bilbo thought faintly as they approached Erebor.

A familiar figure stood just outside the gates, waiting for them – he obviously had been informed of the prince’s departure from the mountain, judging by the look on Thorin Oakenshield’s face, but he did not seem too angry. 

Indeed, his face seemed to be _etched_ in stone.

Oh dear.

He watched their approach in silence, the guards at the gates shifting uneasily at being in the King’s company, and Bilbo chanced a wave at the unmoving dwarf. 

It seemed that he would not return the greeting – Thorin stood so still he could as well be one of the statues that framed the great entrance – but he lifted his hand after a moment, and Bilbo felt his heart hammer in his chest. 

“Uncle!” Kili cried, uneasy, but Thorin only gave him a flat look and nodded at the stables. 

“Leave your pony and go find your brother. We will speak later,” the King said gruffly, but his eyes were not as cold as they could have been if he were _truly_ furious with them. Kili grinned and obeyed. Bilbo watched him go for a moment, gathering his courage to face the King.

“Your Grace,” Thorin Stonehelm said, inclining his head in respect. He dismounted quickly and made to help Bilbo off his pony, but the King was faster: he stepped next to the hobbit’s steed, rising his eyebrows questioningly. His hands wrapped around Bilbo’s waist at the Burglar’s slight nod, lifting him from the saddle and to the ground.

“Ah, my back,” the hobbit moaned, stretching slightly with his hand resting on Thorin’s arm. “I am too old for pony riding.” 

“I trust you enjoyed your trip?” The King asked. Bilbo had not failed to notice that he ignored Thorin Stonehelm completely. 

"It was pleasant enough,” Bilbo said carefully. “I hope we are not late for the feast.”

“No,” the Dwarf Lord assured him, “The musicians are still tuning their instruments and I’ve been told the cooks are still finishing up the dishes.”

“I’m glad!” Bilbo said, watching as Stonehelm handed the reins of his and the hobbit’s pony to a servant. “There’s being fashionably late and then there’s being simply rude, don’t you know.”

The King hummed at the back of his throat. His eyes never left Bilbo’s, and not for the first time the hobbit wondered what was going on in that royal head of his. 

“I should clean up before the party,” Bilbo continued to ramble, feeling more and more awkward as time passed. The package with the gloves he bought was hidden in the pocket of his coat, yet he felt as though Thorin’s gaze could cut through fabric and discover the true reason why he left for Dale. “Wouldn’t do to show up like an unkept faunt, after all!” 

“Allow me to escort you to your quarters,” the King said, but there was a hint of hesitance in his voice, as though he was not sure of his welcome anywhere near Bilbo’s person. 

The hobbit smiled shyly, but before he could reply, Thorin Stonehelm appeared at his side.

“Master Baggins,” he said with a smile. “Thank you for your delightful company. Could I- Might I ask for the first dance of the night?”

Bilbo stared at the other dwarf, confused and flattered at the same time. He opened his mouth to agree readily, but a warm arm wrapped around his shoulders and he was pressed against a much bigger body-

Oh. 

_Oh goodness._

Thorin Oakenshield looked down at the hobbit, so close that had Bilbo stood on his toes their cheeks would touch. His face was pale but his blue eyes were burning with unnamed emotion. 

“Master Baggins has already pledged his first dance to me,” he said roughly, and though he spoke to the other dwarf, his gaze never left the hobbit in his arms. “Have you not, my Burglar?”

Bilbo swallowed heavily. All thoughts of Thorin Stonehelm fled his mind – the King was warm like a furnance, his eyes beautiful in the dimming light of dusk and oh! Bilbo had thought their friendship dead and buried, yet here he was, standing so close to his dear friend he could almost count the eyelashes framing those eyes of his. They were ridiculously pretty...  


“Yes,” he replied, breathlessly. 

“I see,” Thorin Stonehelm said, but to Bilbo it seemed as though he was speaking from a great distance. “I shall see you at the feast, Master Baggins. Your Grace, if you would excuse me.” 

Bilbo barely noticed the Captain’s departure. His thoughts were scattered like leaves in the wind – the arm around him tightened for a brief moment, then the dwarf released him and stepped back.

Bilbo felt as though he had lost something precious, but he smiled at the King, pleased when his thin lips twitched in response.

“I have something for you,” he blurted out, immediately berating himself for being hasty, but Thorin only looked at him curiously and nodded at him to continue. “I wanted to apolo-”

“Do not.”

Oh, but that hurt. Thorin must have noticed the pain on Bilbo’s face for he made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and reached out to take the hobbit’s hand in his.

“I know what you wish to say. There is no need, Master Baggins. You... you were not at fault. I should not have taken your loyalty for granted, I should not have even tried to order you-”

“Thorin, you are my King,” Bilbo said softly, reaching into his coat to take out the neatly wrapped package. “You are the only King I’ll ever pledge myself to. Yes, you should not have tried to order me around but...Please, accept this as my apology. Won’t you, my friend?”

The dwarf watched him for a moment, his gaze burning, intense. He took the gift in his free hand, squeezing Bilbo’s fingers with the other before releasing him to unwrap the small parcel. 

The gloves made him gasp, their deep red scales turning almost black in the last light of the sun, and he slipped them on almost reverently. They fit perfectly as though they were made for Thorin alone.

“Are those... Smaug's-”

“No,” Bilbo hastened to say. “No, but they look like it, don’t they? The-the merchant said they were made off of a Red Lizard’s skin, some sort of a beast that lives in Harad. I-I thought they were beautiful, and-”

“They are,” Thorin said softly, taking them off with care and placing them back in the package. “Thank you, Master Baggins.”

“It’s Bilbo,” the hobbit murmured. Thorin’s eyes shone like stars.

“Bilbo,” the King said softly, reaching out as though to caress the Burglar’s cheek. His hand fell away before he could touch the soft skin, however, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. He stepped back. “Come. The feast shall start soon and I know you wish to clean up and change.”

“Of course,” the hobbit said, already missing the tender moment, and followed the King back into the Mountain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Red Lizards are entirely my creation - initially, the gloves were made out of Smaug's scales, but then I thought: no simple merchant's tools would be able to cut through the dragon's hide. So, the Red Lizards were made up by me, based on the Nile Crocodiles.


End file.
